Eustace muttered something in excuse which I could not understand, and I thought was only laxity on his part.  I told him that, if such things were to happen, his house was no home for me.  And he began, “Come now, Lucy, I say, that’s hard, when ’twas Harold, and not me, and all those fellows—­”

“What fellows?”

“Oh, Malvoisin and Nessy Horsman, you know.”

I knew they were the evil geniuses of Dermot’s life.  Lord Malvoisin had been his first tempter as boys at their tutor’s, and again in the Guards; and Ernest, or Nessy, Horsman was the mauvais sujet of the family, who never was heard of without some disgraceful story.  And Dermot had led my boys among these.  All that had brightened life so much to me had suddenly vanished.

It was Ash Wednesday, and I am afraid I went through my Lenten services in the spirit of the elder son, nursing my virtuous indignation, and dwelling chiefly on what would become of me if Arghouse were to be made uninhabitable, as I foresaw.

I was ashamed to consult Miss Woolmer, and spent the afternoon in restless attempts to settle to something, but feeling as if nothing were worth while, not even attending to Dora, since my faith in Harold had given way, and he had broken his word and returned to his vice.

Should I go to church again, and spare myself the meeting him at dinner?  I was just considering, when Mr. George Yolland came limping up the drive, and the sight was the first shock to the selfish side of my grief.  “Is anything the matter?” I asked, trying to speak sternly, but my heart thumping terribly.

“No—­yes—­not exactly,” he said hastily; “but can you come, Miss Alison?  I believe you are the only person who can be of use.”

“Then is he ill?” I asked, still coldly, not being quite sure whether I ought to forgive.

“Not bodily, but his despair over what has taken place is beyond us all.  He sits silent over the accounts in his room at the office; will talk to none of us.  Mr. Alison has tried—­I have—­Ben and all of us.  He never looks up but to call for soda-water.  If he yields again, it will soon be acute dipsomania, and then—­” he shrugged his shoulders.

“But what do you mean?  What can I do?” said I, walking on by his side all the time.

“Take him home.  Give him hope and motive.  Get him away, at any rate, before those fellows come.  Mr. Tracy was over at Mycening this morning, and said they talked of coming to sleep at the ‘Boar,’ for the meet to-morrow, and looking him up.”

“Lord Malvoisin?” I asked.

And as I walked on, Mr. Yolland told me what I had not understood from Eustace, that there had been an outcry among the more reckless of the Foling Hunt that so good a fellow should be a teetotaller.  Dermot Tracy had been defied into betting upon the resolute abstinence of his hero—­nay, perhaps the truth was that these men had felt that their victim was being attracted from their grasp, and a Satanic instinct made them strive to degrade his idol in his eyes.